


All You've Left Behind

by SharpestKnife



Series: No Snow [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Fur, Half-Sibling Incest, Incest, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Sleep, Tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 02:18:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/907717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robb reaches to the other side of the bed and he chides himself for thinking that something could be waiting there. His hand closes around thin air, and suddenly the room is so much smaller.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All You've Left Behind

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this was cathartic, and maybe a roundabout form of revenge for all the weepy (but excellent) R/J fics I've found here. I'm donating my tear ducts to science and I promise the next one will be [happy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/907975). Edit: Here's the [sequel](http://archiveofourown.org/works/909434). Look, no tears! Well, mostly.

Robb stands at the doorway and takes in the emptiness of the bedchamber. It's so clean. Far too neat. Jon had been so thorough about it, had made bloody well certain to uproot his entire life when he went away. It's as if to say that he was never coming back. He was so sure that no one would miss him, that he'd be quickly forgotten. Robb swallows and wishes it was that simple.

It takes him a moment to step in, seeing a space that he had grown so used to and finding it so changed, quiet and very empty. They shared chambers all the time, but Robb had always liked coming here best. It was like stepping into a second home, somewhere he would always be welcome. Some nights they stumbled in together as a flurry of hands groping over clothes and hair. On others Robb would creep in alone to surprise Jon as he slept. And Jon would always jump at his lightest touch, or maybe he was pretending, but it really didn't matter. It was always the same gentle greeting: a groggy smile and an outstretched hand inviting Robb under the covers.

The covers. It's all that's left, the furs and skins that line the bed, made plush and pliant over so many nights. Robb thinks he could fall asleep on stone wrapped up in them. He sits on the bed and it's still familiar at least. He runs his hands over the fur, moving until he finds the depression Jon's body had pushed into the mattress over the years. He lays onto his half of the bed and there's a bit of a dip there too, carved from those nights in childhood when they'd huddle, and the more recent evenings when their explorations had been somewhat less than chaste. Robb reaches to the other side of the bed and he chides himself for thinking that something could be waiting there. His hand closes around thin air, and suddenly the room is so much smaller.

And it's cold. It's never been so cold here. Robb remembers how Jon would always build the fire himself. He flushes as he recalls that they never needed it for warmth. The heat of heaving chests, tangled limbs and searching hands was always enough. The scent of wood and the crackle of fire were really just companions through the long nights, little friends that played until the flames burned out and dark gave way to day. He glances at the fireplace, now just a grave of ash and charred remains, and he feels the chill build inside him like a shard. Nothing has ever hurt this much, and he takes no comfort in knowing that perhaps nothing will again.

He closes his eyes and his mind flits back over the years, months and moments, and everything is warm again, filled with the summer and sweetness of early youth. It had all been so innocent then, the small jolts when the backs of their hands brushed by accident, stolen glances across the banquet hall, and one day it was like a blind had been pulled from his eyes, and Jon was lean, broad, no longer a boy, and all Robb ever wanted in the world. 

The first few times had been awkward and tender. Jon wouldn't give in, gods damn his purity. _No, Robb, we shouldn't_ , his voice hoarse in fear, or maybe longing. Robb had begged desperately, had pleaded with his hands and his hips, and Jon gave in because it was Robb. When their lips met there was no longer any doubt, no shame, and all of it was just right, so clear and correct. They had thought then that they would have all the time in the world to discover, until suddenly there wasn't.

They learned quickly all the same, little things like the curves and edges of their bodies, and how their faces fit together. All the tricks that Robb used to make Jon whimper just so, the way Robb scolded him each time he asked instead of taking, how Jon would growl from deep inside of him when Robb nipped at his skin. 

Robb runs his fingers through the tufts of fur and pretends that he hears Jon beside him aching for his touch and breathing his name. He doesn't open his eyes. The memory is too vivid and he knows all too well that there's nothing on the bed but him, nothing to warm him through this evening. He chokes back a sob as he rakes his nails across the fur, just hard enough to make Jon groan like he always would. All there is is an empty bed and the absence fills him just as it fills the chamber.

He tangles the fur in his fingers and it feels like it could be Jon's hair. So much like him, Robb thinks, and so much like their small encounters: feral and wild, but somehow soft. It always started rough and they would curse through sharp teeth and wet mouths as they rutted like animals, swear to the gods and their seven hells as they spilled. Each time they finished they would end up twined against each other in heaps, humming with low laughter and the smallest of shudders. 

The release was always exquisite, but Robb liked the tenderness even more. His fingers would move of their own accord to find the snarls of Jon's hair, teasing and pulling as he nuzzled his brother's head into place. Robb could see him perfectly that way. He would marvel as his lashes fluttered in the last throes of pleasure and his mouth gaped for breath. Soon all the parts and pieces of him would settle, and finally Jon would fall asleep, content, loose and trusting in his hands. Robb would watch for peace to slowly claim Jon's troubled face, and once, just once, Jon had whispered his name in a dream, and his heart shattered from the sound of it. Robb stayed up every night waiting and it had never happened again.

He turns his head and for a fleeting moment catches the scent of him on the pillow. Robb inhales sharply, lets the smell of him run through his body, and at first it seems that it should be enough, but he knows better and it never will be. He should have committed it all to memory, the heat of salt and leather on Jon's skin after long bouts in the yard, the faint tang of metal on his calloused hands. The way that every drunken kiss started with a smile and a languid chuckle, and then a gust of warm breath laden with the sour sweetness of wine tumbling over hungry lips. Robb breathes in the furs, but without him the smells are all wrong.

Lying there with hazed memories and imagined touches only drives the pain deeper. His chest pounds and he feels he might die from the ache of it, and there's nothing, no one there to ease the hurt, and still he does not, cannot leave. He wonders if Jon left the covers for him and he desperately wants it to be true. He twists into the bed, takes in the scent of it, the scent of him, and it's already fading. He sobs softly and his tears clot the furs until they're matted and again he thinks of Jon's hair. It takes minutes, maybe hours, and he falls asleep with nothing for company but the ghosts of nights long passed.

*******

It's early morning and the lady of the castle hears only the first trills of birdsong and the pads of her feet as she paces. The bastard's bedchamber should be empty, but she wants to make sure that he's left nothing to remind her of his once being there. She throws the door open and the chamber is sparse but for the bed and the blankets, and there, her precious Robb slumped on the covers. She watches him sleep, his mouth half open, and follows the length of his arm, finds his fingers wound tight through the fur. She wonders if it was a mistake, if letting the boy take the black and cleaving them apart was right, and she knows this is best. About time for Robb to abandon the games of childhood.

Her mouth curls at the sight of the bed covers. She wants them gone, given to servants, burned, or she will never be rid of the bastard. The flare of anger gives way to ache as she sees the expression on her Robb's face, understands why his eyes are puffed and red even as he sleeps. She feels a twinge in her chest and turns to leave, but the sound of him stirring makes her linger. It's unmistakable even from this distance that Robb whimpers something, a name, in his sleep.

And Catelyn knows she should be glad that the boy has left at last, knows in her heart that she feels no remorse to see him gone. She feels nothing, nothing at all, and she doesn't know why she's crying.


End file.
